Indeterminacy.
How quickly it seems. A cheerful autumn snow turns. Sad
nostalgia for what hasn’t been. Takes its place. Maybe. Never was. The
wrenching moment. Unreal. Unexpected timing and impact open something
dark warm empty. That tired old wound. Self equals pity. Not.
I would release. that moment. and all the wound(s). to the air if I could. For some reason. I won’t. Let go entirely. For moments. Disappear into the breeze, walking. Out over the rise. Down into the valley. Over to the college campus there. You work where here, I walk. Now. But then I grab a breath back in. Forget to release. Hold that breath. Until my lungs crave oxygen.
In moments of release I call. Perhaps, rather, these calls are. A moment of holding. My breath. Inspiration. Expiration. Spiraling. Snow. One dropping flake at a time, falls, melts on leaves, drips into a thirsty soil. Foolish feels this way.
Expectations and hopes—built unrealistically high. A snow sculpture I wanted so much. I attempted to build it while snow melted. From the sky and the grass still showed. Melting before it finds shape. Before there was snow. Out of which to discover. It’s form.
Why else would sadness be so deep. Your intuition deep and full. As if this is your intuition. Certainly I have not trusted. Myself. Or an other. Or you, I guess. If I still cling. Tenacious these few breaths of insubstantial air. A fantasy of us. It never was. Still. Creation begins. with a breath.
Paths I don’t want. to walk down. again through this snow. Growl at me and beckon. Dragons swallow tails. I talk. to convince myself. Through convincing you. this. I use your voice. Tell me I should. All the while choosing. Each step directs me away. From what I convince myself I should not have or be. Want.
Those paths lead. Convoluted paths disappear into barren waste and briars. No path runs straight. I come to the same juncture, or one so similar as to be identical, not having learned from this intersection yet how to navigate this moment. And you are decidedly not that you. A demon of my own imbalance disguises itself as mask. Outside of me, you would never be. Which is why I trust. You? Which is what. I wish I could say some meaningful way.
To come to see you requires more silence than is in me right now. You are someone different. Some one. Different. I am talk myself into another illusion. We are all one. All the same creates light. Or perhaps I am just using my voice, an hallucinated you. Turn my self onto another. Misconstrued path. All the while I believe. We are in harmonic resonance with each other. Or could be. Obviously not at this moment.
What is belief? In any moment of quiet walking. I sense only a few things.
One thing. I am the person walking here and I don’t want to be anyone who is not this “I” right now—not for a lack of desiring tikkun olam, not for a lack of willing to ascend and descend the ladder, not for a lack of dreaming of an orchard, for that desire, that will, that dream together as who is walking, the illusion of me.
Metaphors for the journey walk through this. Snow falling on this day after Thanksgiving. I want to be on this journey, this person on this journey.
Another thing. When I breathe out something is right.
My tiredness stays with me—my tiredness does not stay. I held onto it. Maybe more of it has dissipated than I know. Still, I feel calm. Partnership remains most of the time. Judging myself, not you me. The idea annoying you. It is illusion / delusion of self-centeredness. And all of it, or this it, without any all, has nothing to do. Which is likely true, or some of it true, or none of it true.
A third thing. Here I chase my tail again. Wanting to say. There are other moments before concluding. The thought drifts off. Think about laughter, the sounds of people.
A last sensing. We would turn into a super nova of human emotion. If total energy were. Always the way. First days, intimately in spiritual mystical union with godhead. Making love all the same and one together. The universe in a moment that might be. A wrenching sadness at the beginning. These thoughts. Speak to me something about the depth of connection.
Awareness of. Illusion, delusion, projection, infatuation, a the litany of words. Explain that sense of connection. Why do I cling? This narrow path. I let go for a moment. Grab it back. Breathe it in as sadness and out as joy. Still I hang onto this reality, illusory and self-deluding, trusting. My own intuition. Ignoring it. I don’t know which. Only my self here. Not knowing anything about an other.
Wishing the illusion of some poorly imagined and unrealized snow sculpture. Wishing I would be open to what is. Hanging on. I remember. I came here. To find out this thing. I am grateful. Sad.
And but however still I want. To see. You as you. To find. A way to know. You. As you. Exist. Find. A way not mine. A way both my way. To see. To see you. As you see. Your way to be seen. Loved as one.
All of this. Indeterminacy. provides. No understanding. Or direction. So many white specks dancing through the air, I choose to trust. To accept. While also wanting. Snow falls. Melts practically before. it hits the ground. The trees outlined in white. Dripping water to the roots. Too late for dead plants in the southwest corner, woody and disembodied at once. Perhaps I can paint them red or uproot them and start over.
I approach the end of this walk, regain the house. Perhaps together. We could watch. Snow falls and melts. See the morning return. Of course it would be a different morning and a new snow.
I would release. that moment. and all the wound(s). to the air if I could. For some reason. I won’t. Let go entirely. For moments. Disappear into the breeze, walking. Out over the rise. Down into the valley. Over to the college campus there. You work where here, I walk. Now. But then I grab a breath back in. Forget to release. Hold that breath. Until my lungs crave oxygen.
In moments of release I call. Perhaps, rather, these calls are. A moment of holding. My breath. Inspiration. Expiration. Spiraling. Snow. One dropping flake at a time, falls, melts on leaves, drips into a thirsty soil. Foolish feels this way.
Expectations and hopes—built unrealistically high. A snow sculpture I wanted so much. I attempted to build it while snow melted. From the sky and the grass still showed. Melting before it finds shape. Before there was snow. Out of which to discover. It’s form.
Why else would sadness be so deep. Your intuition deep and full. As if this is your intuition. Certainly I have not trusted. Myself. Or an other. Or you, I guess. If I still cling. Tenacious these few breaths of insubstantial air. A fantasy of us. It never was. Still. Creation begins. with a breath.
Paths I don’t want. to walk down. again through this snow. Growl at me and beckon. Dragons swallow tails. I talk. to convince myself. Through convincing you. this. I use your voice. Tell me I should. All the while choosing. Each step directs me away. From what I convince myself I should not have or be. Want.
Those paths lead. Convoluted paths disappear into barren waste and briars. No path runs straight. I come to the same juncture, or one so similar as to be identical, not having learned from this intersection yet how to navigate this moment. And you are decidedly not that you. A demon of my own imbalance disguises itself as mask. Outside of me, you would never be. Which is why I trust. You? Which is what. I wish I could say some meaningful way.
To come to see you requires more silence than is in me right now. You are someone different. Some one. Different. I am talk myself into another illusion. We are all one. All the same creates light. Or perhaps I am just using my voice, an hallucinated you. Turn my self onto another. Misconstrued path. All the while I believe. We are in harmonic resonance with each other. Or could be. Obviously not at this moment.
What is belief? In any moment of quiet walking. I sense only a few things.
One thing. I am the person walking here and I don’t want to be anyone who is not this “I” right now—not for a lack of desiring tikkun olam, not for a lack of willing to ascend and descend the ladder, not for a lack of dreaming of an orchard, for that desire, that will, that dream together as who is walking, the illusion of me.
Metaphors for the journey walk through this. Snow falling on this day after Thanksgiving. I want to be on this journey, this person on this journey.
Another thing. When I breathe out something is right.
My tiredness stays with me—my tiredness does not stay. I held onto it. Maybe more of it has dissipated than I know. Still, I feel calm. Partnership remains most of the time. Judging myself, not you me. The idea annoying you. It is illusion / delusion of self-centeredness. And all of it, or this it, without any all, has nothing to do. Which is likely true, or some of it true, or none of it true.
A third thing. Here I chase my tail again. Wanting to say. There are other moments before concluding. The thought drifts off. Think about laughter, the sounds of people.
A last sensing. We would turn into a super nova of human emotion. If total energy were. Always the way. First days, intimately in spiritual mystical union with godhead. Making love all the same and one together. The universe in a moment that might be. A wrenching sadness at the beginning. These thoughts. Speak to me something about the depth of connection.
Awareness of. Illusion, delusion, projection, infatuation, a the litany of words. Explain that sense of connection. Why do I cling? This narrow path. I let go for a moment. Grab it back. Breathe it in as sadness and out as joy. Still I hang onto this reality, illusory and self-deluding, trusting. My own intuition. Ignoring it. I don’t know which. Only my self here. Not knowing anything about an other.
Wishing the illusion of some poorly imagined and unrealized snow sculpture. Wishing I would be open to what is. Hanging on. I remember. I came here. To find out this thing. I am grateful. Sad.
And but however still I want. To see. You as you. To find. A way to know. You. As you. Exist. Find. A way not mine. A way both my way. To see. To see you. As you see. Your way to be seen. Loved as one.
All of this. Indeterminacy. provides. No understanding. Or direction. So many white specks dancing through the air, I choose to trust. To accept. While also wanting. Snow falls. Melts practically before. it hits the ground. The trees outlined in white. Dripping water to the roots. Too late for dead plants in the southwest corner, woody and disembodied at once. Perhaps I can paint them red or uproot them and start over.
I approach the end of this walk, regain the house. Perhaps together. We could watch. Snow falls and melts. See the morning return. Of course it would be a different morning and a new snow.
Indeterminacy by Michael Dickel, digital montage (companion piece to text)
Michael Dickel is a poet, essayist, teacher, and photographer from minneapolis who has recently relocated to jerusalem.